


close your eyes and cuddle close to me (so dusty with starlight)

by thylionheart



Series: if my heart was a house, you'd be home [3]
Category: A Wrinkle in Time (2018), Kairos (O'Keefe) Series - Madeleine L'Engle
Genre: Abusive Father, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Blood and Injury, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kissing, Middle School, Physical Abuse, Post-Movie, Rated For Violence, Rated T for Blood & Injury, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Verbal Abuse, tbh imo it's not that graphic but i just wanna be safe yknow, this is the angstiest of my series so far be warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-30 23:23:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15106934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thylionheart/pseuds/thylionheart
Summary: In the middle of the night, Calvin seeks refuge in the safety of the Murry home.*not a standalone*





	close your eyes and cuddle close to me (so dusty with starlight)

**Author's Note:**

> First things first, this fic is probably the angstiest of the three. One of the characters gets injured and there is blood. I labeled this Teen & Up just in case. In my opinion it's not too graphic, but I wanted to be safe. I know some people get light-headed or squeamish reading about blood.
> 
> Second things second, Charles Wallace has a POV in this, and I'll be honest, it was hard to write from his perspective. I hope I did him justice; lemme know if you have any advice on how I can better write him in the future. I took some inspiration from "A Wrinkle In Time: A Guide to the Universe" which has a chapter from his POV. In that, he appears to have some sort of synesthesia and can see auras to an extent, so I incorporated that idea, which I thought was pretty cool, into this fic. Since he's still six, he hasn't fully mastered his abilities.
> 
> Also, I gave the fluffy grey kitten from the book a cameo in this fic, and decided to give it a name I thought suited a Murry family pet (hint: it's another character from Hamlet, like Fortinbras). I've seen behind the scenes pictures of Meg's bedroom and they actually had the cat in the movie, but while editing they just didn't include a shot that you could actually see it in.
> 
> The title is from Butterfly Wings by Owl City.

Meg walked into the living room, her sock-clad feet padding quietly across the wooden floor. A mug of cocoa warmed her hands. She settled on the sofa and tugged a thick green falsa blanket across her bare legs. On the TV an annoying insurance ad was playing, a tiny animated man in army garb chattering loudly and pointing at the camera. Grabbing the remote, Meg switched to a re-run episode of _Gravity Falls_ , then, seeing it too was on commercial, flipped back to _How the Universe Works._ Both were episodes she had seen before, but there was only so much to watch at eleven on a Friday night.

Upstairs, Charles Wallace was sleeping soundly. Earlier that same evening their parents had left for a weekend trip to Catalina. Their departure had left both children feeling uneasy, and not without reason. Even though it had been a little over a month since her father’s return, Meg still sometimes felt a wave of panic whenever she came home to find him gone. As such, she had gotten into the habit of shooting him a quick text, slowly drowning in her anxiety until he replied, oftentimes with a string of silly but heartfelt emojis. But despite their parents’ frequent travel updates, coming home from school to find an empty house had filled Meg and Charles Wallace with a nagging worry.

So Meg had decided that, to alleviate some of the stress, she and her brother were going to have a pajama party—an old tradition that her father had started when she was small. Whenever she'd had a bad day at school, her dad would turn the living room into a fort and make ice cream sundaes. They’d both change into their pajamas and spend the entire afternoon watching movies or playing science trivia games until Meg forgot her sadness.

Charles Wallace had eagerly dove into the tradition, insisting he design the fort in his sketchbook before they began constructing it. He had gone all out, figuring out the best cushions to use as support and where exactly to place the chairs so that they could drape the blankets with as little sagging as possible. Meg had shown him the perfect way to make a peanut butter and chocolate banana split and let him pick out some movies to watch, unsurprised when he selected _Big Hero 6_ and _Chitty Chitty Bang Bang,_ among others. They'd already watched those movies multiple times in the past few months, but Meg hadn’t minded indulging her little brother, even if the dancing dolls in the latter movie brought about unpleasant memories of the man with the red eyes.

Halfway through _Meet The Robinsons_ , Charles Wallace had fallen asleep. Meg had carefully deconstructed the fort around him so she could carry him upstairs and tuck him into bed. That had been two hours ago, but she’d felt too restless to go to bed herself, and so had come back downstairs to clean up their mess and watch some television.

It was nearing eleven-thirty when Meg finished her cocoa and went back into the kitchen to wash her mug. She had just set it on the rack to dry when a sudden noise at the back door made her jump.

Fear crawled across her skin. Was someone trying to break in? It wasn’t their dog—Fortinbras was upstairs with Charles Wallace—and her parents weren’t coming home until Monday morning. Adding to her alarm was the fact that there had been a series of robberies in the neighborhood recently; those, however, had occurred in the middle of the day, when most houses sat empty.

Not willing to take any chances, Meg grabbed a nearby kitchen knife to arm herself and pulled her cell out of her pocket. She circled around the island, putting ample distance between herself and the back door, all the while dialing 911. Her thumb hovered over the call button, ready to alert the authorities if need be.

Something tapped rapidly against the door. It almost sounded like someone was...knocking. Meg frowned. Robbers didn’t knock.

A face appeared in the window and she gasped. “Calvin?”

Meg cast her phone and the knife onto the island and ran to the door, unlatching it and throwing it open. Calvin was leaning against the side of the house, breathing heavily. His face looked pale, even with the warm light of the kitchen washing over his skin, and sweat beaded on his forehead. There was a nasty cut on his cheek, red and swollen and just under his right eye. His arm clutched his stomach as though he had a cramp.

“Cal? What—”

“Do you—do you have a first aid kit?” Calvin’s voice sounded oddly calm; wooden, even. He moved his arm from his stomach and it came away red. Meg barely managed to bite back a shriek when she saw that his shirt was torn and stained with blood.

“Oh _—_ What _—_ What happened?”

“Help...first. Questions later. Please.”

Meg nodded numbly. She guided him to the kitchen table and hurriedly cleared it off before helping him lie down across it. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as she ran to the lab and snatched the first aid kit off the wall. When she returned she saw that Calvin had taken off his bloodied shirt and cast it aside, revealing the source of the blood. Nausea twisted her stomach and she had to stop for a moment and stifle the urge to gag.

There was a large, bloody gash across Calvin’s stomach, surrounded by smaller abrasions and livid bruises. Meg hadn’t seen this much blood since she was seven and sliced her leg open falling off a rickety metal see-saw.

She swayed, feeling suddenly dizzy. “Calvin, I—my parents aren’t here, I don’t—I can’t—”

He took her hand and gripped it tightly. “It’ll be okay...I-I’ll walk you through it. There should be, uh, there should be gloves and distilled water in the kit. Use it to clean the cut, not...not the antiseptic.”

Digging through the kit, Meg found disposable gloves and several fluid ounces of distilled water. She pulled the gloves on and soaked a wad of gauze in the water before hesitantly dabbing at his skin. As she cleared away blood she discovered several slivers of glass, each about the size of a thumbnail, embedded in the wound. When she used the kit’s tweezers to pull out a shard, Calvin cried out and writhed in pain. Meg abruptly stepped away, blurting out an apology. 

Calvin grabbed her wrist. “No, no, you’re doing great. J-Just keep…keep going.”

Meg’s eyes were stinging, and she blinked away the tears that threatened to fall. She couldn’t cry, not right now; she needed to focus and be strong, for Calvin’s sake.

Slowly, Calvin talked Meg through each step of the dressing process, and, in a hollow, detached voice, told her what had happened. Apparently, his father had discovered that he hadn’t signed up for football tryouts, an act Mr. O’Keefe found reprehensible. He had yelled at Calvin, calling him a spineless pushover and telling him that if he continued to make such cowardly decisions he’d always be skinny and worthless. Then, when Calvin had tried to defend himself, his dad had shoved him so hard he had fallen onto their coffee table, landing right on top of his mother’s expensive metal-and-glass centerpiece and striking his cheek on the sharp edge of the table.

By the end of his story, Meg’s hands were shaking so severely she couldn’t even tear open a tiny packet of ibuprofen. Calvin sat up strenuously, a hand against his freshly applied bandages, and took the packet out of her hands, setting it aside. He cupped her cheek and pressed their foreheads together. His thumb left a smear of blood on her face.

“Hey...you did great. Thank you.”

Meg choked back a sob. She wanted desperately to hold him, but her gloved hands were still covered with blood. _His_ blood.

“It’s okay, Meg,” Calvin said. His voice was strained but gentle. “You don’t have to hold back. Not with me.”

He tugged mildly on one of her braids and nodded his encouragement. Meg’s face crumbled, and she finally broke down and began to cry. Calvin took off her glasses before pulling her close and letting her cry into his shoulder. After a minute, Meg felt him shudder with a sob of his own. She drew away long enough to tear off her gloves, and then she curled her arms around his neck, holding him now not to seek his solace, but to offer him comfort and strength herself. Calvin clung tightly to her, bawling; his entire body shook as his shock-induced stoicism wore off and reality sunk in.

For nearly ten minutes they cried in each other’s arms. When Meg finally drew away, her face felt hot and sticky and her head throbbed. Calvin looked as though he felt the same; his tear-streaked face was flushed and his glassy eyes were rimmed red. Gingerly she wiped the tears off his blemished cheek with her thumbs.

He winced, and then let out a weary, mirthless laugh. “So much for appearances, huh?” Even though he tried to sound dismissive, his lip trembled and he swallowed hard, as though fighting back a sob.

Meg put her glasses back on, then picked up a clean bit of gauze. As she started cleaning the cut on his face, she searched his eyes and asked quietly, “This won’t heal by Monday, will it?”

Calvin grit his teeth against the stinging pain and stared over Meg’s shoulder. “No. No, it won’t.”

“What are you gonna tell everyone?”

“I’ll probably just…just tell them I tripped and fell and…hit my face on the curb, or something. It’s not my face I’m worried about, though. I don’t know what I’ll say if anyone sees this”—he gestured toward his middle—“in the locker room.”

Meg carefully finished bandaging his cheek. She finally tore open the packet of ibuprofen and got Calvin a glass of water. While he took the pain medication Meg picked up the trash, including his bloody and tattered shirt, and tossed it all in the outside garbage can before returning the first aid kit to the lab.

When she came back inside, Calvin was washing the blood off his hands and arms. He dried himself, then beckoned Meg over. Using a damp paper towel, Calvin delicately cleaned the blood off her face.

“I’m sorry about that. I got blood on your shirt, too.”

Meg looked down; he was right. Her shirt was stained with sparse, blotchy patches of red.

“It’s alright. It’s just a sleep shirt, I have plenty just like it.”

Calvin sighed. He slumped against the island, almost limp with fatigue.

“Did you walk all the way here?”

He nodded.

Pity tightened Meg’s chest. “Oh, Calvin, that’s almost five blocks! How haven’t you collapsed yet? C’mere."

She put his arm around her shoulders and circled her own arm around his waist, and together they hobbled out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

Once they reached the second floor, Meg ducked inside her parent’s bedroom and began looking through their dresser while Calvin leaned against the doorframe.

“Where’re your parents?”

“They left this afternoon for a weekend getaway to Catalina Island. It’s been four years since their last vacation together, so to say they deserve it would be an understatement.” Finding a plain tee and a pair of her father’s pajama pants, Meg tossed them at Calvin, then grabbed a shirt for herself. She walked to the door and gestured to the empty bedroom. “You can, uh, change in here. I’ll change in the bathroom.”

A couple minutes later they both stepped back out into the hallway. Calvin wore an oversized shirt and baggy pajama bottoms, while Meg had on a long Griffith Observatory tee that fell past the hem of her gym shorts. Self-consciousness needled the back of her mind, but she shoved it away. That was the least of her concerns right now.

Looping her arm back around Calvin, she guided him carefully up to the attic.

When she switched on her bedroom light, Calvin’s mouth fell open. “This is your room? It’s so—so—“

“Messy?”

“Lovely,” Calvin whispered, his voice tinged with awe. He limped into the center of the room and admired her colorful rugs and poster-clad walls. “Homey.” Then he let out a soft gasp. “I didn’t know you have a cat!”

A small smile tugged at Meg’s mouth as Calvin slowly knelt down to pet the fluffy grey kitten napping on the cushion next to her coffee table. “That’s Rosie. Short for Rosencrantz.”

Calvin cooed at Rosie, who stretched and mewed sleepily. Meg switched on her bedside lamp before walking back across the room to turn off her overhead light. When she turned around, Calvin was adjusting one of the floor pillows and getting ready to lie down.

“What are you doing?” Before Calvin could speak, Meg shook her head. “You’re not sleeping on the floor.”

“Where—?”

She took his hands and helped him stand, then led him to her bed. Crawling under her patchwork quilt, she scooted close to the window and threw back the covers.

Calvin hovered next to her bed. He rubbed the back of his neck and his voice was surprisingly timid when he spoke. “You...you sure?”

Shy uncertainty struck Meg for a few moments before she swallowed the growing lump in her throat and nodded. Calvin slowly climbed into the bed and laid on his side facing her while Meg took off her glasses and set them on her windowsill. She leaned over him and turned off her lamp before settling down beside him. When their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they exchanged bashful smiles and small _heys_. 

Then Meg’s smile faltered, and she reached over and brushed his face, just under the bandaged welt. Slowly she traced her fingers along the curve of his cheek and down his jawline. His skin was soft...vulnerable. Her jaw clenched and her throat burned with an anxious anger as she studied the vivid red bruise peeking out from under the dressings.

How could a father do this to his own son? And how long until his father’s abuse landed him in the hospital—or worse?

Calvin murmured her name, his voice rasping. “Meg…”

If he was going to say more, he didn’t get a chance. Meg cupped his neck and kissed him, long and slow and achingly desperate. Wrapping an arm around her waist, Calvin pulled her close, careful not to put pressure on his wounded middle.

When they broke apart, she cradled his face and looked him firmly in the eye. “Next time this happens, you call 911.”

“Meg—”

“No, no, I’m _serious_ , Calvin. I’m serious. A first aid kit can only do so much, and I can’t—Cal, I can’t—” Her voice cracked, and she squeezed her eyes shut for several seconds. When she continued, her voice quavered. “Promise me, Cal. _Promise me_.”

His eyes softened at her pleading words. “I promise, Meg.”

Meg buried her face in his chest and took a deep, shuddering breath, drinking in the peculiar mixture of scents that clung to his skin: the syrupy tang of Neosporin, her family’s laundry soap, and something fresh and minty that might’ve been eucalyptus. She could feel his heart beating against her cheekbone. Calvin kissed her temple and rested his chin atop her head. 

They laid together in silence. Gradually their anxiety lapsed into calm, their heartbeats and breathing slowing and falling into a mutual rhythm until eventually they fell asleep, still wrapped in each other’s arms.

 

* * *

 

Calvin’s eyes flickered open. Moonlight shone hazily through the curtains and dipped between the drifting clouds. He blinked several times to clear his sleep-addled mind and tried to remember where he was and what had woken him. Then next to him something shifted and struck his shin, and the night’s events flooded back.

Nestled against him lay Meg, her head tucked under his chin. She squirmed and whimpered, her brow pinched together as though she were in pain.

“Meg? Hey,” Calvin whispered, shaking her shoulder gently. “Meg, wake up.”

With a sharp gasp she awoke, jerking upright onto her elbows. Calvin sat up to join her, stifling a groan as the wound on his stomach ached. When she wavered he placed a steady hand on her back. Her whole body quivered like a guitar string; tense and trembling. Breathing heavily, Meg brought a hand to her mouth to muffle quiet sobs.

Calvin gave her space to breath and rubbed slow circles on her back. “Hey, hey, you’re safe. Everything’s gonna be okay. I’m right here.”

It took her a minute to compose herself. Using the heel of her hand, she rubbed her tearful eyes and let out an unsteady sigh.

“Was it a nightmare?” asked Calvin in a soft voice.

Meg nodded listlessly. She stared at the opposite wall, eyes unfocused.

“Do you get them a lot?”

“Sometimes. Maybe…um, maybe a couple times a week.”

Calvin frowned sympathetically. “I’m sorry. I—I get them too.”

“You do?” Meg’s voice was small. There was a loose thread on her quilt and she twisted it around her finger.

“Yeah. Do you wanna talk about it? Your, uh, your nightmare?” When Meg pursed her lips and looked away, he hastily added, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. We could try and go back to sleep or go watch some TV?”

She didn’t say anything for a couple minutes. Calvin waited patiently as she pensively traced her fingers across the different patterns on her quilt, as though memorizing every shape and line.

Then she opened her mouth to speak, but her voice stuck roughly in her throat. Fisting her hands in her quilt, she shook her head, bowing it to try and hide the tears that had started filling her eyes again.

Calvin drew her into a hug. She curled her fingers into the front of his shirt and pressed her face against his shoulder.

A while later, after she had stopped shaking, Calvin adjusted the pillows against the headboard and lounged back onto them with a muted grunt of pain. Meg scooted closer and settled against him, fitting snugly between his crooked arm and his side.

“Do you think it’s the IT?” Meg wondered aloud. Her voice was hoarse from crying. “The darkness, affecting our dreams?”

Calvin chewed the inside of his lip.  When he spoke, his tone was low and tinged with melancholy.  “No, I think...I think this is just a part of being human. When we get cut deep enough”—he absentmindedly touched his injured cheek—“it leaves a scar. Or sometimes you break a bone and it heals awkwardly, or you tear a muscle and doesn’t function as well as before, and you have to go to physical therapy to regain your strength and mobility back. I think it’s the same way with our minds, and our emotions too. When we go through a traumatic or emotionally grueling experience, it can leave a bruise, or a scar, or a fracture. And just like with physical injuries, sometimes you need professional help, and sometimes you simply need time to heal.”

His throat began to constrict with the threat of tears. The abuse he had suffered only hours ago somehow felt both distressingly raw and nebulously hazy. It was as though his body remembered the pain while his mind strained to forget, attempting to detach itself from the memory of his father's assault. Calvin closed his eyes and concentrated on suppressing the urge to cry. After a few seconds, he could breathe easy again.

“When did you become a doctor?” Meg’s tone was mildly teasing, but she eyed his cheek and placed a gentle hand overtop his bandaged middle.

“I’ve...I’ve had some practice. But I’ve, um, actually considered it—becoming a doctor,” Calvin confessed. “I’m just not sure whether I’d rather be a medical doctor, or get a doctorate in a different field.”

“I’d like you to be my doctor.” When Calvin’s eyebrows shot up, Meg’s eyes widened and she began spluttering. “No, w-wait—That’s not what I meant! I just—I meant that you’d have a great bedside manner! Wait, no—no that came out wrong too—I— _Aargh_!”

She buried her flushed face in her hands while Calvin burst out laughing. His laugh was infectious, and Meg couldn’t help but start giggling too. Soon enough they were both doubled over, completely and utterly in stitches. Laughing made the gash on his stomach throb, but Calvin didn’t mind. It felt so good to laugh, to cast their worries and nightmares aside for a moment, and just _laugh_ together. By the time they regained their composure, their bellies ached and their eyes brimmed with mirthful tears.

Meg peered up at Calvin, a doting smile curving her mouth. She gave him a soft peck on the cheek before resting her head on his shoulder. “Thank you, Calvin.”

“For what?”

“For being you. So wonderfully you.”

Calvin felt himself blush with pleasure. He started playing with one of her braids, twirling it around his finger. “I adore you, Meg,” he murmured.

“I adore you too.”

 

* * *

 

Sunlight streaked through the windows and refracted as it traveled through the crystalline prisms that rested on the windowsill, causing rainbows to shimmer and dance across the kitchen island. Charles Wallace finished washing the last of the dishes and dried his hands with a towel before glancing toward the door for what must have been the hundredth time.

It was nearly noon, and Meg hadn’t come downstairs yet. Several months ago that wouldn’t have been unusual; back then, any chance Meg got to sleep in she promptly took, sometimes not getting out of bed until past one in the afternoon. But ever since they found their father she had started waking up earlier, and now Charles Wallace couldn’t recall the last time Meg had slept in later than nine.

There was something about the way the merry morning air trembled and the rainbows pranced and pirouetted that assured Charles Wallace that he needn’t be concerned. But what could he say? It was starting to get lonely down here all alone, and he missed his sister’s presence.

After ten more minutes of waiting, Charles Wallace finally ascended the stairs to the attic. The higher he climbed, the more his skin prickled with a peculiarly pleasant presentiment. He brushed the feeling aside, chalking it up to the loveliness of the quiet Saturday morning and his eagerness to see his sister. Knocking quietly on Meg’s bedroom door, he lingered in silence for a minute before slowly cracking it open and peeking inside. “Meg?”

She didn’t reply. He tiptoed as quietly as he could across the attic, intending to crawl into her bed and shake her awake, but when he was a little over halfway across the room he stopped short and cocked his head.

There were _two_ people in his sister’s bed. Under the covers, flat on his back with his limbs splayed out like a starfish, lay Calvin. Beside him Meg snored softly, her head on his shoulder as though it were a pillow. She had an arm draped across his chest, fingers clutching loosely at the fabric of his shirt, while Calvin’s hand rested on her back. It was such an innocently endearing picture that Charles Wallace couldn’t help but smile.

“New word for the day,” he mused, a bit of awe tinting his tone. “ _Serenity_.”

That was it—that was what pricked at his skin, what made the air shiver blissfully and the rainbows in the kitchen twirl. Serenity radiated off them in rosy pink waves, filling Charles Wallace with a sublime sense of contentment.

The thought of disturbing them now was unfathomable. Charles Wallace began sneaking back toward the door, but he had only taken a couple steps before one of the floorboards creaked loudly beneath his feet. He flinched, and behind him he heard Meg and Calvin start to stir. Sighing in defeat, the young boy decided there was no sense in leaving now. 

“Good morning, sleeping beauties,” sang Charles Wallace puckishly, climbing atop the bed beside the two young teens. “Or should I say ‘good afternoon’?”

Meg was the first to open her eyes. Blinking against the bright sunlight, she squinted up at her brother and groggily mumbled, “Charles Wallace?” Then her eyes flew wide open. “Charles Wallace!”

Her elbow dug into Calvin’s stomach as she hastily sat up. The poor boy, who had still been half asleep, let out a yelp of pain and curled into a ball, a grimace contorting his face.

“Oh my gosh,” Meg gasped, “I’m so sorry, Calvin!” 

Charles Wallace watched curiously as Meg lifted the hem of Calvin’s shirt—wait, was that Daddy’s shirt?—and unveiled a patchwork of bandages, some spotted red with blood and all surrounded by purpling bruises. Meg put on her glasses and started inspecting each bandage while Calvin tilted his head to look at Charles Wallace. It was then that the younger boy noticed another bandage on Calvin’s cheekbone, just under his right eye.

The air grew suddenly still, the last wisps of serenity clinging to the teens dissipating with a regretful sigh. Charles Wallace’s belly grew cold with dismay. He had figured out weeks ago that Calvin’s home life was a loveless mess, but he hadn’t quite known the extent until now.

“So that’s why you’re here,” said Charles Wallace quietly.

Meg shot her brother a panicked look; it was clear that she hadn’t wanted him to know about this. He could sense her rifling through a number of excuses in her head, searching for something to say, anything to tell him that wasn't the truth.

Then Calvin lurched upright despite Meg’s protests. “W-What...what time is it?”

“A little after noon,” Charles Wallace answered.

Calvin took a sharp breath. He pressed his hand to his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut, as though deep in thought. His lips moved but he didn’t speak.

Meg looked up from his bandages with a frown. “Calvin?”

“It—It’s Saturday, right?” Calvin’s voice shook and stuttered. “Saturday the—the…the—?”

“The 29th,” said Charles Wallace.

“The 29th. The 29th. Oh, thank goodness.” He rubbed his face with his hand and fell back against the pillows with a sigh of relief.

Meg’s brow was furrowed. “Wait, why?”

“My dad’s away on a company retreat today. If he wasn’t…”

“You’d be in a lot of trouble for not being home,” Charles Wallace finished. "And he might hurt you again."

Calvin reached over and took his hand. “I’m sorry, buddy. I didn’t mean for you to see me like this."

“It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not alright. I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“Well Calvin, you’re going to have to get over that,” Charles Wallace said firmly. “Worrying means that we care.” Then, he recited: “‘Let me have a faithful account of all that concerns you; I would know everything, be it ever so unfortunate. Perhaps by mingling my sighs with yours I may make your sufferings less, for it is said that all sorrows divided are made lighter.’ Héloïse d’Argenteuil _._ ”

Charles Wallace enunciated the name slowly, syllable by syllable; it had taken him some practice until he could pronounce it correctly, and even now he cringed as he mispronounced the final syllable.

Calvin didn’t seem to notice his error. The older boy blinked rapidly and shook his head in disbelief. When he spoke, his words were laced with wonder. “How did…how did I find you guys? How did I—I—” His voice cracked and he slumped over, burying his face in his hands.

Immediately Meg pulled him into a hug, allowing him to rest against her chest. She kissed the top of his head and rubbed his back as he cried. Charles Wallace scooted closer and threw his arms around his sister and her boyfriend, joining the embrace.

“I love you guys,” croaked Calvin, his voice muffled. He shifted so that he could hold both Meg and Charles Wallace. “I love you, so much.”

“We love you too, Calvin,” Charles Wallace said. “You’re family.”

They sat together, holding each other, until Meg drew away and touched the gauze on Calvin’s cheek. It was starting to fall off, and Charles Wallace could see part of a long, thin cut across his skin.

“We need to replace your bandages,” Meg murmured distractedly. “Are you sure it’s not gonna get infected?”

“Pretty sure, but we should reapply the antibiotic anyway.”

Charles Wallace stood up and grabbed their hands, tugging them to their feet. “C’mon, I’ll make you guys some breakfast. Well, lunch, really. Brunch.”

The three of them made their way downstairs and into the kitchen, where Charles Wallace quickly set to work. As he began fetching ingredients, Meg grabbed the first aid kit and started redressing Calvin’s wounds. Charles Wallace tried not to look, but when Calvin whimpered in pain he couldn’t help but glance over and see the ugly gash across his middle. Sadness formed a lump in his throat. He swallowed thickly and turned away, focusing on preparing the meal.

It didn’t take Charles Wallace long to finish making a light brunch, combining Greek yogurt, granola, and fruit in two bowls. When he carried the food over to the breakfast table Calvin tousled his hair and Meg thanked him with a kiss on the cheek.

“So, Calvin,” began Charles Wallace, “Have you ever had a pajama party?”

“Um...I’ve been to sleepovers, but I’m not sure what a pajama party is.”

“It’s kinda like a sleepover, I guess. A pajama party is where you wear pajamas and build a pillow fort and eat as much ice cream as you can stand while watching your favorite movies. It’s a fantastic remedy for bad days.”

Calvin’s smile grew a little sad. “A remedy for bad days, huh? That...sounds really nice right now.”

“Then you two sit tight and finish your breakfast—I mean, brunch.” Charles Wallace stole a raspberry from Meg’s bowl and popped it in his mouth. “I’ll go rebuild the fort!”

Half an hour later all three kids were tucked inside the fort, the curtains drawn and lights off. Calvin had picked _Finding Nemo_ to watch, but he and Meg didn’t seem to be paying much attention to the movie. Together they spoke in hushed voices, so softly Charles Wallace could only make out a few words here and there. He didn’t mind, though. It reminded him of the way his parents would whisper through movies or shows, more interested in each other than what was playing on the TV. Charles Wallace sat snug in between them, leaning back against Calvin. Every so often the older boy would affectionately rub his back or shoulders.

After _Finding Nemo_ and partway through _The Sound of Music_ , Meg left the fort to make them all some dessert. She returned right as Liesl snuck out to meet Rolf and handed the boys ice cream sundaes in large mugs. As Meg settled back down against the pillows, Calvin pulled her close. He looked at the TV, where Rolf and Liesl were singing and dancing together, and whispered something in her ear. Meg giggled and pushed him away, but not before he stole a kiss on her cheek. Charles Wallace dug his spoon around his sundae and tried to pretend he hadn’t seen their endearing exchange, but he was doing a terrible job of biting back a smile. He could feel their happiness in the static crackling across the blankets and taste it in the sweetness of the fudge on his sundae.

By the time _The Sound of Music_ finished it was a little after five in the afternoon. Calvin crawled out of the fort and stretched. 

“I should probably go.”

“Already?” Charles Wallace cried, crawling out behind him with Meg right on his heels.

“Are you sure?” asked Meg quietly. Charles Wallace felt poorly repressed worry ripple through the air between them, and he took her hand in an effort to comfort her.

Calvin sighed. “My dad is coming home at seven. I’d rather not push my luck.”

Chewing her lip, Meg nodded in understanding, though she still looked anxious. “I’ll walk you home.”

“ _We’ll_ walk you home,” Charles Wallace declared, and grabbed Calvin’s hand.

Calvin managed a small smile. “Thank you.”

Twenty minutes later, the three kids walked down the cracked sidewalk toward the O’Keefe home. They had changed quickly before leaving, and Calvin was now wearing Meg’s faded grey NASA hoodie. Charles Wallace had overheard his sister telling Calvin that he could keep it.

“I have plenty of NASA stuff,” Meg had said. “And besides, you look better in it than I do.”

Calvin had laughed and shaken his head at that. “Don’t sell yourself short, bright eyes. But I’d love to have it, as long as you let me give you something in return.”

The closer they got to Calvin’s house, the more anxious the older boy got. Charles Wallace was in between him and Meg, holding both of their hands, and as they turned down his street he could feel Calvin’s pulse quicken and his palms start to sweat. By the time they reached his home, he was shaking.

It was a deceptively pretty house, with clean paint and a neatly mown lawn. But past the surface, past the white iron-wrought fence and the perfectly clipped hedges, Charles Wallace could feel a dreariness pervading each wooden slat and window frame. The whole house itself seemed to be moaning, crying. It didn’t wish to be a host to such aching loneliness, Charles Wallace realized. Yet it had no choice but to witness the cruelty within its own walls, to become a home of darkness and shadows.

It seemed even Meg could sense the palpable despair enveloping the O’Keefe home. She wavered and turned away as though the sight pained her.

“I’ll be okay,” Calvin tried to reassure her, but his words came out stilted and hollow. A fearful grey haze had settled over him.

Meg’s bottom lip trembled. She embraced him fiercely and whispered, so softly Charles Wallace almost didn’t hear her, “Don’t forget your promise.”

Calvin held her with equal fervor. “I won’t.”

They kissed. Charles Wallace looked away, feeling a bit intrusive. When they broke apart, Meg was crying and Calvin was trying—and failing—to hold back tears of his own. He wiped at his eyes before kneeling down to hug Charles Wallace.

Charles Wallace cradled Calvin’s face in his hands, his fingers grazing the coarse bandage on his cheek. “Come back home soon, okay?”

A noise caught in the back of Calvin’s throat and he bowed his head. The myriad emotions swirling around him in rapid frissons almost made it hard for Charles Wallace to breathe. But when Calvin raised his eyes to meet Charles Wallace’s again, he wore a wistful smile.

“I will.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! ♥︎


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